Once he had negotiated the downward fall of the hills and was on Boxed-O range Jim rode with extreme caution, his awareness of his situation fully realized.
There was no way of anticipating the reactions of any Boxed-O riders he might meet. If possible he intended to avoid any contact at all. To this end he kept close to any cover he saw, riding in amongst any trees or stretches of brush. The dullness of the day and the falling curtain of rain aided his camouflage. Nevertheless he rode uneasily, his eyes searching constantly. Beneath his slicker his handgun was loose in its holster and his saddle-gun was close at hand.
Once, some distance to the north he saw riders plainly outlined against the skyline. Jim pulled his horse close in to a stand of high trees and watched the riders as they moved slowly along the crest of the distant ridge. For a while it appeared as if they might ride his way, but they eventually turned away and went over the ridge out of sight. Jim sat for a while longer, then moved on through the unceasing downpour.
He saw no more riders. In fact he saw no more signs of life throughout the remainder of his long ride to Boxed-O headquarters. Olsen’s vast herds were obviously being kept on some other section of the huge, sprawling range.
The complex of corrals, outbuildings, and the huge main house appeared deserted, abandoned almost, to Jim as he crested a rim at the sloping approach to the Boxed-O ranch. He set his horse down the muddy trail which brought him in by way of the maze of corrals and cattle-pens. He passed a large feed-store and stables large enough to hold a herd of horses. A number of wagons were stored beneath a lean-to alongside the stables. It was an impressive setup, Jim admitted. Big, ambitious, built from the dreams of a man who saw everything in a big way.
The rise of smoke from the cook-shack told Jim that someone was at home. He turned his horse that way, dismounting into ankle-deep mud. The cook shack door opened before Jim reached it and a balding, scarlet-faced man with flour-white hands eyed him suspiciously. A cloud of steam billowed out from behind him and the odors of hot food and coffee reached Jim.
The cook eyed Jim for a few seconds. ‘I know you, don’t I?’ he asked.
‘You maybe heard of me. Jim Talman’s the name.’
The grin on the cook’s face was paler than the flour on his hands. ‘All I do is make the meals.’
Jim realized that the man was more than a little scared. Trouble of this kind touched everybody involved, from the top right down to the bottom. But he wondered just what sort of a monster he represented to some people.
‘Take it easy, friend, I haven’t come to shoot holes in your coffee pot.’
A sudden breeze caught the rain and sent it scudding across the puddled yard in a silvery curtain. It struck at Jim, stinging his face and he hunched his shoulders against it.
‘Is Olsen at home?’ he asked.
The cook shook his bald head. Rain had caught it and it shone wetly. ‘You missed him by a couple of hours. Him and the missus. They took the rig and headed for town.’
‘Coming back today?’
‘Bossman is. I heard he’s leaving the missus in town. I figure he wants her out of the way while all this trouble . . . ‘ The cook’s voice faltered and he stared at Jim as though he expected to be leaped upon by a raving maniac.
‘I’ll try and catch him in town,’ Jim said, turning his back on the cold wind that was blowing up.
‘You going to stop this mess?’ the cook asked.
In his saddle Jim looked down at the man. ‘I’m going to try,’ he said.
The cook smiled without humor. ‘How?’
Jim gathered his reins. ‘That’s the only part that’s giving me trouble.’
‘I could get me fired for saying this, but I hope you find a way, Mr. Talman, before we all lose more’n we can afford. You know what I mean?’
Jim nodded. ‘I know what you mean.’ He pulled his horse’s head around and urged the animal forward across the yard. Behind him the cook retreated into his warm haven, closing the door against the wind and rain, and the cold, unfriendly world.
Beyond the yard Jim found himself on a regular trail, plainly Boxed-O’s road to town. He set himself for another long ride and wished he had taken time to beg a cup of coffee from the bald-headed cook.
Settling himself in the saddle as comfortably as possible, Jim resigned himself to the journey ahead. He was cold and wet, for even the best slicker couldn’t keep out every drop of rain; water had somehow got in under his collar and had drawn a chilly finger down his back. The flesh of his face was sore from the constant sting of sweeping rain, his eyes were aching from having to squint and peer through the driving downpour.
He allowed his horse to pick its own way, depending on the animal’s instinct to take it on the safest route.
Time dragged as the miles passed by. Jim eased his watch out of the folds of his slicker. He saw that it was after midday, and he realized he must be close to town. Shortly he came onto the main trail and a while later he was passing the first of Garnett’s buildings. He was unable to raise any comfort from the fact that he had arrived — each minute that elapsed only brought his confrontation with Olsen that much closer.
He turned his horse in at the livery, riding through the big double-doors.
The large barnlike place was gloomy, deep-shadowed, but it was warm and smelled of leather and horses. Jim dismounted and led his horse into an empty stall. He off-saddled and gave his animal a brisk rub down, then covered it with a handy blanket. He was sweating under the clinging slicker by the time he’d done. Collecting his rifle Jim made for the door, wondering idly where the liveryman was.
At the door he stood for a moment, staring out at the rain-lashed town. He was almost reluctant to go out into the rain again but he knew he had to. Holding his rifle beneath his slicker he stepped out into the downpour and headed for the hotel.